


Battle plan

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Hand Jobs, Jealous John, M/M, Possessive John, Top John, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9368612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: A new yarder, very interested in Sherlock, sparked John's jealousy, and the former soldier decides to act.7.1.2017: I added a brief, porny epilogue.





	1. Battle plan

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my fist language. Not beta-ed, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> This fic is a gift for the sweet [Mimamia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimamia), who's always nice and supportive with me.

John Watson wasn’t in his best mood when he returned home that afternoon: during his shift at the clinic he had a hypochondriac patient who believed to be at death's door and had been in his office for over an hour, and another one with a poisoning from raw sea food at its peak.

And certainly his mood didn’t improve when he opened the door of their flat and found Irene Adler on the couch, relaxed, smiling and definitely not dead.

The doctor curled his left hand into a fist and her smile became devilish.

"Oh, I see that Sherlock didn’t tell you about our little adventure in Karachi. He is always so mysterious, isn’t he?"

"Why are you here?"

"I was looking for Sherlock, I’ve-"

"No," the former soldier interrupted her immediately, "you’ll not drag Sherlock once more in your fucked up problems. Indeed, if you don’t get up and leave right now, I’ll call the police."

The mere presence of that woman in the room made him want to surround the building with barbed wire, land mines and laser cannons to keep her away from Sherlock.

"My, my, possessive, aren’t we? Well, at least this answers the question I asked you then, if you're jealous."

Irene seemed to have a great time teasing him, and that angered John even more; however the woman possessed a modest survival instinct, because she knew when to stop fooling around. She pulled out some notes from the creamy clutch bag that she hold in her lap and laid it on the coffee table.

"I read in the newspapers that Sherlock is working on a very complicated case, so I came to offer him a decisive clue."

“And to ask something impossible in exchange, I bet.”

He didn’t trust her, she was duplicitous and never did anything out of generosity, but Irene rolled her eyes.

"It’s to repay him because he saved my life back in Karachi, nothing more. Now we are even."

"Great, so I guess nothing else holds you here."

"Are you so scared by the idea that I can take Sherlock away from you, that you don’t even offer me a cup of tea?"

"Sherlock, and I aren’t tog-"

"No, that’s clear" this time Irene interrupted John, then stood up, smoothing some imperfections of her black satin sheath dress. "Anyway, I'm pretty disappointed in you."

"Disappointed?"

"Yes, I thought that after our friendly chat, you'd take action with him, as a good Captain of the Army would do. Tell me John," she tilted her head and smiled, revealing her white teeth behind the red lips, "why are you so cautious? Is it because Sherlock is a virgin? Or do you feel you are sitting pretty because he shows no interest in anyone? Or maybe it’s you the one not interested in him; well, in that case I think I should step forward..."

"Get out of here!" John growled, and Irene laughed: "Not the last one, then. And relax, for god's sake, you're barking up the wrong tree."

"What do you mean?"

"My wife is waiting for me in a cab. Give my love to Sherlock, and don’t be too hard on him: I think he has saved me more to spite his brother, and not because he really cares about me. However it’s a pity that you don’t want me as a friend, it would be great fun to stay around here and see what happens when someone else will show interest in Sherlock."

She left the flat without waiting for his reply, and John went in the bathroom for a long, hot shower to let off some steam: few people grated on his nerves as much as Irene Adler, with her sureness of knowing Sherlock better than him. 

Especially because what she said wasn’t far from truth.

She hit the target three times, actually.

Yes, John was jealous of Sherlock, even if they hadn’t a relationship.

Yes, John has always been slow and cautious because Sherlock was a virgin.

And yes, he was sitting pretty, because Sherlock showed interest only in his work and not in human relationships: John was the most lasting and constant relationship in Sherlock life, so he didn’t feel that he had real grounds for concern on that side.

However, the words of the woman had made him nervous: the fact that things went well so far, didn’t mean they would have been the same forever. And yes, Sherlock had a scary personality, which made run away most people, but he was a unique beauty, and one day he could meet someone tough enough to override on his behaviour.

The water became cold, and when John came out of the bathroom, wrapped in his striped bathrobe, he saw that Sherlock had returned. He was sitting in his chair, reading with interest the pages Irene Adler had left for him.

"A gift from an old friend of yours, as you have already deduced," the former soldier said, putting the kettle on.

"Irene has always first grade informations" the consulting detective said, then went back to reading. Obviously he didn’t apologize for not saying to John that she was still alive, because Sherlock was just like that, and John wasn’t surprised; anyway Sherlock didn’t ask anything else about the woman, and that was weird.

"Don’t you want to know anything more about her?"

"If she didn’t write anything about it, it means that she has nothing more to say, so what should I ask?"

"Oh, I don’t know," John snapped, slamming the mugs on the kitchen table "Maybe you want to engage another battle of brains with her!"

"Boring: I've already beaten her once and now I know how she thinks,” he waved a hand in the air “She’s no longer interesting."

John was about to breathe a metaphorical sigh of relief when Sherlock changed the subject, "Today I have met a new agent at Scotland Yard: his name is Adrian Baynes and he’s very smart."

"Oh?" John said, trying to mask his interest (and the bother, because Sherlock remembered the name of this guy).

"Yes: I was going to lose hope of meeting an intelligent lifeform between the Yarders, but this guy not only has understood the deduction I made, while all the others were looking at me as if I was speaking in ancient Aramaic, he also made a few very pertinent observations. And thanks to the clue that Irene Adler has kindly provided me, the solution of the case is near. It's Christmas."

"I'd like to know this wonderboy of Scotland Yard" John said, with a face that instead told that he wanted to tie Baynes to a rocket and send him to the moon. Or maybe to Mars. Yes, definitely to Mars, the moon was too close.

"You will meet him in half an hour, if he is on time."

"What?"

"I invited him to dinner to discuss the details of the investigation."

"Why?" John asked, now openly angry.

"You're the one who always says that I must be nicer to people. That's me being nice, so why are you angry?"

“First of all I’m not angry” John lied, "and then the flat is a mess, it’s not clean, there are dirty dishes in the sink and we have nothing to eat."

"I ordered Chinese food, and Adrian is very approachable, he will not care for some dust bunnies."

 

Oh yes, the infamous Adrian was on time, and kind, and funny, and monopolized the conversation throughout the evening, with his affable manners and his baby face, and he was clearly interested in Sherlock, in an almost shameless way. John almost broke his chopsticks every time Adrian leaned too much toward the detective to ask something.

The former soldier kept replaying in his head the conversation he had with Irene Adler just that afternoon, especially the bit where she implied that sooner or later someone would be interested in Sherlock. If it hadn’t been a too absurd idea, he would have thought that the young policeman had been sent by the Dominatrix, for the solely purpose of vex him.

When Baynes gave Sherlock a pat on the back, complimenting him for a deduction, John decided that no, that situation was not good at all: as a soldier he recognized he had made a tactical error stalling with Sherlock for so long, so now it was urgent to develop a plan to repair the damage; when the dinner ended Three Continents Watson was ready to dust off some old tricks of seduction to make sure to sweep away Adrian Baynes from Sherlock’s mind and life once and for all.

 

First step: to focus Sherlock’s attention on him with a little old style exhibitionism.

The next morning John went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water and undressed, but instead of getting into the shower, knocked on the door that separated the bathroom from Sherlock’s bedroom

"Hmm?" it was the sleepy answer he received.

John opened the door and entered the room with great nonchalance. "Sorry to bother you, but I have finished my shampoo, I can use yours?"

Sherlock's gaze went from sleepy to started in less than a second, he stared at John's naked body with his mouth half open, and the doctor smiled internally: mission accomplished.

"Sherlock? Is there a problem?" he asked, trying to hide the smugness in his voice.

"I..." Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment to order his thoughts. "No, of course, take my shampoo and whatever you need from me... ah..." he stopped, realizing that his sentence could be very ambiguous, but John just smiled.

"I’ll take only the shampoo. For now" he joked, and went back to the bathroom, remembering to sway slightly. Nothing too vulgar, just a hint to show Sherlock that he wasn’t the only one with a remarkable bottom.

 

Second step: to be inside Sherlock’s personal space more often and to take advantage of it for some innocent physical contact.

After showering, John came out of the bathroom wearing the striped robe again, but without the usual tank top underneath, and he didn’t miss the look that Sherlock gave to him, lowering the newspaper he was reading. It was clear that the detective was mulling about his behaviour.

"Thanks for having lent me your shampoo" John said, leaning toward Sherlock "Don’t you think that it smells good on me?"

Sherlock froze a few moments before smelling John’s hair and nodding.

"Yes, it’s very good. You can use it again if you like."

"Thanks, it's very kind of you, Sherlock."

John also thought to touch his hand, but that was too sudden: he didn’t want for Sherlock to find out his game too soon.

A message came on Sherlock phone: it was from Baynes and asked Sherlock to join him to examine new evidence.

John wiped his mouth in a towel to hide a grimace of disappointment: the Scotland Yard wonderboy was tough, so it was necessary to take countermeasures for him.

"Let's go, then."

"Do you come with me, John?"

"Yes, why?"

"Until now you showed no interest in this investigation, since it’s related to politics."

"Yes, it's true: let’s say that there have been interesting developments in the last hour."

He wouldn’t let Sherlock alone in the tiny and polite hands of Adrian Baynes.

Sherlock was concentrated to examine the evidence found on the scene and took no notice of anything or anyone else around him, except when he asked some questions to the policemen, while John was a perfect guard dog, physically interposing himself between Baynes and Sherlock, and acting as an intermediary between the two.

When John looked Baynes into the eyes, it was clear to him that the yarder had understood his game, but that was fine, more than fine: John wanted Baynes to know that trotting around Sherlock and trying to hit on him wasn’t acceptable.

"I'm done here," Sherlock announced, "I need to think about it, then I’ll let you know what conclusions I drew. Come on, John."

John gave to Baynes one last satisfied smile and followed Sherlock.

That evening Sherlock sat in his armchair, with his hands clasped under his chin, locked in his Mind Palace to solve the case, and John, sitting in the armchair in front of him with a book in his hand, stretched out his legs and rested the big toe of his right foot against Sherlock left ankle. He thought he felt Sherlock starting, but didn’t look up from the book not to betray himself, he just left his foot there for the whole evening.

After that, he slowly introduced other short moments of physical contact with Sherlock: he sat closer to him during cab rides, or on the couch when they watched tv, leaned on his shoulder when Sherlock showed him something on his laptop, he also took interest in Sherlock scientific experiments, to have an excuse to brush surreptitiously his hands against Sherlock’s when he passed him a slide or a petri dish. John also began to take his showers with the bathroom door ajar, or to walk around the flat with far fewer clothes on.

His strategy was paying off, because Sherlock was quite intrigued by his behaviour and spoke much less of Adrian Baynes, although the police officer continued to send him messages with the excuse to get some advice.

John had to admit that Baynes was a tough opponent, but he was not going to lose that battle.

 

Third step: to resort to heavy artillery. One evening, after dinner, John went up to his room, took a hammer, went to the window and broke a glass deliberately, then he got ready to act: it was essential to be convincing.

Less than a minute later Sherlock appeared in the doorway, frowning. "John, what happened?"

The former soldier scratched his head, feigning embarrassment. "Oh, I'm such an idiot! One of the hinges of the window was crooked, so I took the hammer to straighten it, but I screwed up."

"I see."

"No harm done! Tomorrow morning I'll tell Mrs. Hudson, and I will pay for the damage."

John took his pillow and pajamas.

"You don’t mind if I sleep in your bed, do you? With the broken glass it’s freezing in there."

Sherlock gasped comically for a few seconds, like a fish out of water, blinked quickly and then nodded, but at the moment seemed unable to utter a word.

"Great! It will feel like going on camping again."

John quickly prepared for the night and left the bathroom to Sherlock, who instead took a long shower, then came into the bedroom wearing pajamas and a towel around his shoulders, but his hair was still very wet.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"To bed, of course."

John sat up, fully into doctor mode, "Well, not with that hair: if you don’t dry them well, the dampness will penetrate into the pillow and this is not hygienic, also you expose yourself unnecessarily to the risk of headaches and neck pain."

"I have always done so."

"And you have always done it wrong. Sit down!" John ordered, and Sherlock did with a pout.

"Really, you must have more care of yourself."

John slipped off the towel from his shoulders and used it to gently massaging the scalp with circular movements; he realized that this wasn’t part of the seduction plan he had drawn up, he genuinely cared about Sherlock, always had. After a while, he threw the towel on the floor and ran a hand through his dark curls, now only slightly damp.

"There."

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome. Good night, Sherlock."

" ‘night, John."

John turned off the light and closed his eyes, recalling the feeling of Sherlock’s silky hair in  his fingers. Christ, behaving that night would not be easy. Sherlock seemed to have trouble falling asleep, too, since he tossed around constantly.

"Can’t you sleep?" John asked in the dark "Do you want me to make a chamomile to you?"

"You would do this on camping?"

"Well, no, but if we were camping, we would hiking all day, so we would be dead tired and fall asleep without problems."

Sherlock said nothing for several minutes, so much so that John thought he had finally fallen asleep, however, he turned to his side, facing him, and whispered: "I've never done it."

"What, camping? I thought so: convincing two posh boys like you and Mycroft to sleep in a tent was an impossible task."

"No, not that. Sleeping with someone."

John knew that Sherlock was a virgin, but he thought he had at least a little experience in sharing a bed.

"Do you want me to go to sleep on the couch?" The desire to conquer him was strong, but John didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, or force him to do things he didn’t want.

"No," Sherlock assured him "It's just strange and new, too much data to process."

Typical of him.

"Maybe this time you shouldn’t proceed as usual, this is a different from a homicide. I hope" John chuckled.

"And what should I do?"

The doctor inched slowly toward Sherlock. “Just feeling.”

This time Sherlock didn’t answer anymore, maybe he was thinking, maybe he had fallen asleep, anyway John closed his eyes, too; initially his plan had been to pretend to be asleep and to throw a leg or an arm on Sherlock, but the moment seemed too fragile, too inappropriate. And a good soldier knew to wait.

However, during the night John dreamed of touching Sherlock, slowly and languidly, he dreamed the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his, he dreamed of kissing his neck and hearing him sighing his name, of sliding his hands along his chest, of feeling him shiver and moan, before the dream vanished.

_ "It was a dream, right?" _ John thought the next morning, once awake. He was fairly certain of it, although the feeling of Sherlock’s skin beneath his lips was terribly real. Sherlock’s side of the bed was already cold, so the doctor got up, went to the loo, got dressed, then entered the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, John greeted him with a casual "Hello Sherlock, slept well?", and immediately saw him blush. Deeply.

Ah.

Oh.

So it hadn’t been just a dream, right?

Cautiously, John joined him on the couch and offered an apology. "Look, I hope I haven’t done anything too embarrassing or inappropriate."

"Are you talking just about last night or the past few weeks?"

Obviously Sherlock had noticed his different behaviour toward him.

"Did it bother you?" John hadn’t had that impression, he thought Sherlock enjoyed his attentions, but with him one never knew.

"No," Sherlock replied sincerely, turning to John "Although it was quite distracting," he added with a smirk.

"My bad," John replied, but he wasn’t sorry at all.

"But I'm trying to figure out why."

_ "Because I want you to be mine and mine only, because I’m jealous and possessive, because we fit, because someone else took interest in you, and I'm terrified of losing you" _ John thought, but it was too much too soon.

At the same time lying to Sherlock was useless, so he opted for a simple truth.

"I like you."

Fourth step: to drop the bomb.

Sherlock gurgled something unintelligible that made the former soldier smile, then added quickly, "Me too."

"You like yourself? I had no doubts."

"N-no, it’s not..." Sherlock shook his head, squinting, and John decided that awkward Sherlock was his new favorite thing.

"I like you too," Sherlock blurted out, "But why now?" He was not angry, just very curious.

"Well…"

Almost as if on cue, Sherlock’s phone rang and it was Baynes.

"Of course it’s him," John muttered and Sherlock's lips stretched in an incredulous smile.

"Are you jealous?"

"No," John denied, crossing his arms over his chest, but Sherlock was passing in review the events of the last weeks in his Mind Palace. "You are jealous."

"I don’t like people who don’t know their place."

"And what it is his place?"

It was all in the sunlight now, so John took Sherlock's chin between thumb and forefinger and kissed him firmly, leaving him breathless.

"Away from you."

"John, there's no reason to be jealous, Baynes is just a good tool for the work, nothing more."

"Good" John said, kissing him again.

The phone had stopped ringing, but then it started again.

"He is insistent."

"Baynes had promised to call me if he had a new interesting case."

Sherlock seemed determined to answer the call, but John wanted to make it clear to him what came first; the detective was sitting on the tip of the sofa, so John crept between him and backrest.

"John? What are you doing?"

"Go ahead," John murmured, placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and stroking the silk of his shirt "Answer."

"Yes, I should, but..."

John peppered Sherlock's neck with kisses, then came up to his ear, where tried a brief lick. Sherlock's hand holding the phone trembled visibly and the detective hesitated to unlock it.

"I'm not stopping you," John said, his voice dripping honey, while stroking Sherlock’s throat with one hand.

"It is…"

"Yes?" John undid one button of the silk shirt, and another, but then stopped, stroking the collarbones with his index fingers, but nothing more: Sherlock had to choose.

The phone kept ringing, and Sherlock understood: he threw it away, making it landing on his armchair.

"Good boy. And great launch, too."

John began to slowly undo the buttons, smiling with his mouth pressed against Sherlock's neck, he slowly stroked his pale chest with a feather touch, up and down, listening to his ragged breath, and suddenly he squeezed a nipple between his fingers, making Sherlock start in his arms; the younger man threw his head back on John's shoulder with a cry and the former soldier took possession of his mouth, kissing him until they were both breathless.

John’s hands kept on tormenting the silky skin, kneading and scratching, leaving trails of red marks, until they reached Sherlock’s trousers and caressed the heavy bulge there.

"Sherlock" John called, but the detective still had his eyes closed: perhaps he was trying to process all the sensations he was experiencing.

"Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock opened his eyes: they were glassy and unfocused, and John’s ego inflated, thinking that he had that effect on him.

"W-what?"

"You have already done this, yes?" John asked, stroking him over the woolen fabric.

"Yes, of course, what kind of stupid quest- mph..."

John cut his protests with his tongue and teeth, and lowered Sherlock’s trousers and pants with a consummate gesture, freeing his erection; he licked his lips, thinking about all the things he wanted to do to him, and held the throbbing cock in his palm.

If before Sherlock had started in his arms, at the first touch of John’s hand on his penis, he jumped like a spring, legs trembling, his back arched, muscles stiff and tense, so much so that John had to press the other hand on his abdomen to make him sitting back.

"It’s different," Sherlock mumbled "It's not like when I touch myself, why it's different, John?"

"Don’t think, Sherlock, focused on what you feel, nothing else."

John continued to masturbate him, using every trick he knew to make the experience unforgettable; Sherlock closed his eyes again, abandoning himself to John, moaning without any control. And, God, he was a wonderful erotic view.

"Good boy, yes..." John whispered in his ear, sliding one hand lower to fondle his balls, and further down, a small, succulent clue of what they could do.

"I'll make you feel things that you don’t even images, I will make you lose your mind, I will bend you over the kitchen table and take you hard and fast, I’ll suck you in the shower, I will tie you to the bed, milking and tormenting you for hours, I’ll be the only thing in your mind, I..."

Sherlock stiffened, gave a louder cry and experienced a powerful orgasm, spurting hot seed on John's hands, as the doctor continued to stroke him, kissing his sweaty forehead, until Sherlock whimpered faintly in protest, then he let him go, but when John tried to kiss again his addictive lips, but Sherlock slid down.

"Hey, where are you going?" John chuckled.

It seemed like Sherlock’s body had become suddenly made of rubber, because he slid to the floor in a liquid movement, creeping between John’s legs, his eyes to the level of his erection, still trapped in jeans.

"I..." Sherlock began, sliding his hands up his thighs, but the doctor stopped him.

"No."

"But…"

John leaned over Sherlock to place a reassuring kiss on his lips.

"Not now."

"Then when?"

"Tonight, when we will do what I have told you," John promised and Sherlock shivered.

"Everything?" Sherlock asked, his pupils dilated, and John chuckled "I have told you many things for just one night."

"We have to write a chart, then."

"Later, now let's go."

"Where?"

John stood up and held out a hand to Sherlock, helping him to get on his feet, then took the detective's phone and dialed the last number. "Go take a shower, I call Baynes and ask him where the crime scene is."

"But…"

"Did you think I wanted to change this, you or your work?"

No, of course not his John.

"For me it’s enough for Baynes to stop on our doorstep, it’s all I ask."

"More than fair."

John kissed Sherlock one last time, satisfied, and then he began to speak.

"Mr. Baynes? Here is John Watson speaking, Sherlock’s partner... yes? Where? Perfect, me and my boyfriend will be there in an hour. Goodbye." John closed the call and turned to Sherlock "Too much?"

"No, it's perfect."

“Let’s roll, then.”

Mission accomplished.


	2. Spoils of war

The case was, in fact, interesting, it was not just an excuse from Baynes to see Sherlock.

And after John's call, the Scotland Yard's agent realized that he had no chance with the sleuth, and acted professionally, probably motivated by the presence of the former soldier, too, who walked closer to Sherlock than his own shadow.

"The victim didn’t die in this position," Sherlock began, looking at the man on the ground. "The corpse has been moved and laid here, theatrically."

"Are you sure Mr. Holmes?” asked one of the men of the forensic team, “there’s no evidence that-"

"There's plenty of evidence, but you idiots can’t see it."

"Sherlock..." John warned, silently asking him to be more polite, but Sherlock ignored him and turned his gaze on the small crowd of curious people gathering across the police tape.

"He's a narcissist, and he's probably still here."

Sherlock looked at the dead body and then again at the crowd, and suddenly leaped forward without saying a word.

A man wearing a hoodie ran away, pushing people, and two women fell down.

John swore aloud, and ran after Sherlock, trying to reach him.

"Sherlock, wait."

"No, don’t follow me, go through the back alley."

"But…"

John didn’t like the idea of leaving Sherlock alone, because he knew the sleuth could be reckless, but Sherlock stretched out his arm, pointing at the alley, and eventually John ran in that direction.

It was the right move, because John managed to precede the suspect; he suddenly appeared in front of him and tackled him to the ground, then locked his wrists behind his back.

Sherlock reached him in a few steps, with a radiant smile, and knelt down to help John to keep the man still, because he kept thrashing around and screaming.

"Great job John!"

John looked around: Scotland Yard’s men were arriving, but they were still far away, so he leaned to Sherlock and whispered to his ear: "Then I deserve an award, don’t you think?"

The allusion to their conversation from that morning was clear and, surprisingly, Sherlock lost balance and found himself on the ground, as he stammered something incomprehensible and blinked quickly, overwhelmed by the memory of John's hands on his body.

John was secretly proud to have cause such reactions in him: he was the only man able to catalyze Sherlock's attention on something that wasn’t a case or his violin.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered as soon as his brain got back online, and it was all John needed to hear.

Three agents took the suspect in custody, and Baynes approached them with a open notebook.

"How did you figure out it was him? I need a detailed report."

Sherlock waved his hand in the air, obviously annoyed.

"Tomorrow morning."

"No, I need it right away, I have to charge him."

"No problem," said John, rising.

"John!"

"I’m serious."

He extended a hand toward Sherlock to help him to get on his feet, and smiled at his pouty face, then, pretending to tidy his coat, he murmured: "The waiting will make my award even more enjoyable."

"You want to kill me," Sherlock protested.

"This is the last of my desires, I assure you."

He put his hand on Sherlock's back, gently pushed him toward the police car that would take them to Scotland Yard and, once seated, put a hand on Sherlock’s knee and held it there for the duration of the journey, to tease and remind him what it would be happen in a while.

Not that it was strictly necessary: Sherlock was well aware of it, judging by the quick glimpses he kept throwing at John, or how he was restless on the seat: he seemed to have sat accidentally on an anthill.

"Are you sure you aren’t trying to kill me?" He grumbled.

As a answer, John let his hand slide up to his thigh and squeezed it briefly, before leaving the car.

It was the shortest statement of the history of Scotland Yard, and after a few minutes Sherlock dragged out of the building a John who couldn’t hold back a laughter.

"They'll have to listen to your recording six times to figure out what you're saying."

"Their problem, not mine" Sherlock said as he scanned the street with his eyes, impatiently looking for a cab. He stopped one and literally pushed John inside it.

"Baker Street, as fast as you can."

John looked at his wristwatch and shook his head, laughing. "A murder solved in less than three hours, it’s a record even for you."

Sherlock shrugged and tapped his fingers on the seat, silently cursing the traffic.

"It was an easy case."

"You were good, nonetheless."

"Thank you."

The traffic light became red and Sherlock snorted, frustrated: the case was now behind him and his thoughts were already elsewhere.

"And now,” John lowered his voice to not being heard by the driver, “now it's my turn to show you how good I am."

The tension in the passenger compartment was palpable, and John was dying to grab a handful of Sherlock’s curls and kissing him, but he imposed to himself to resist: not yet, he wanted to get home.

Once in Baker Street, Sherlock threw some bills to to the driver, not worrying about the change, climbed the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson who was in the mood for a talk, closed the door behind them, and suddenly all the nervous energy seemed to abandon him, leaving him uncertain: his inexperience was evident.

He opened his mouth to say something, but John shook his head and put his index finger on Sherlock’s plump lips.

"No, don’t talk: out there you are the greatest consulting detective of all time, you can do whatever you want, and give orders to anyone, including me. But here, between these four walls, the rules are different,” John lowered his voice to a sensual murmur, “This is my space, I'm your Captain and you are my private."

Sherlock's lips flicked open, his breath became more rapid, and John bit the inside of his cheeks to conceal a triumphant smile: he had seen right about Sherlock's kink in bed.

"So then," said the ex-soldier, "now you shower, go to your room, take your clothes off and wait for me."

Unexpectedly, Sherlock didn’t protest, and thanks god didn’t lectured John with a scientific approach to gay sex; he didn’t even deduce in detail what John was about to do, he just obeyed.

It was clear that his trust in John was immense, and the thought almost moved him, but John stored it away for a better time: he didn’t want to think about it now; now the moment was electric, full of sexual tension, his battle plan had been a success and now John just wanted to reclaim his spoils of war.

Sherlock turned to go to the bathroom, but John stopped him by taking his wrist.

"And, Sherlock? Be thorough."

He clearly felt Sherlock's heart fibrillate against his fingers, and a feeble moan escaped his lips.

Oh yes, it would have been unforgettable for both of them.

John went to his room (though he hoped he could soon move downstairs permanently) and changed, wearing an olive-colored tee shirt, his old military fatigues and black boots; he took the lube from the bedside drawer, gave Sherlock enough time to prepare himself, went downstairs, and slowly pushed the door to his bedroom.

"Turn your back to the door," John ordered.

"Why?"

"Because I say it," he answered, using his Captain of Fusiliers voice, then went in, threw the lube on the bed, and took a moment to admire the naked body in front of him.

Sherlock was a piece of art, with his damp hair dripping on the shoulders, the perfect line of the spine, the long, muscular legs, and the round, plushy bottom, that the tailored trousers Sherlock wore did nothing to hide. John had fantasized several times about it, but seeing it without veils was another thing.

A thrill of excitement ran through John's body at the idea that Sherlock would soon be his. He put a hand near Sherlock’s hip, without touching it, and felt the heat that radiated from his skin.

Sherlock’s arms were rigid and his fingers twitched from time to time, betraying his nervousness (or perhaps his desire?)

Finally John came in front of him, and Sherlock held his breath at the sight of his military clothes; John crossed his arms over his chest and the sleeves of his shirt tightened around his biceps.

Sherlock’s gaped for several seconds, then closed his mouth with a click and swallowed noisily.

Desire, without any shadow of doubt.

"See anything you like?" John murmured in a low voice, not caring of how lame the line was.

"Yes."

"Me too."

Sherlock’s muscles were well-defined but not excessive, and his cock was already fully erect, jutting out perpendicularly to his body, the tip red and damp with pre-cum.

He was literally dripping.

Sherlock blushed under John’s gaze and the flush spread all the way down to his chest.

God, he was delicious, and John wanted him. He wanted to feel the muscles tremble under his fingers, to taste the flavour of his skin, to know his smell, to fill his ears with Sherlock’s groans of pleasure.

He wanted everything.

At last the former soldier approached him, put his hands on Sherlock’s chest and raised his head; at the same time, as if drawn by a magnet, Sherlock's face leaned over to him and his long fingers wrapped around John’s hips.

John opened his mouth and caressed Sherlock’s lips with his tongue, moved sideways and kissed the corner of his mouth, then licked his lips again; Sherlock opened his mouth, too, demanding a real kiss, but John backed away, because he wanted to tease him, and grabbed his lower lip between his teeth, biting it slowly, then released and licked it again.

Sherlock mimicked his actions, daring a quick lick on John’s thin lips; John moaned his approval, and touched Sherlock’s tongue with his, inviting it in his mouth and sucked hard on it, grasping the back of Sherlock’s neck with one hand, firm and steady, and tormenting a nipple with the other hand.

Sherlock jumped and John felt his wet penis pushing against his abdomen.

"My, my, impatient, are we?" John murmured, shifting his mouth on his long neck; he slid both hands along Sherlock’s body until he had a firm hold of his buttocks, bent his knees and lifted Sherlock to lay him down on the bed, then climbed up and caged him under his limbs.

Sherlock had his eyes closed, his hair around his face was like a pagan halo, his reddened lips were showing the mark of John’s bites, and on his white neck shined a purple hickey.

John leaned over him and tormented his ear with the tongue, making him moan aloud.

"What a delicate skin you have, I could spend the whole day kissing and marking you."

To emphasize his words, John scratched lightly his side, and Sherlock hissed.

John lifted up again and put a finger on his lips.

"Mine," he whispered, sliding the finger along his chin, neck, chest, along his trembling stomach, down to the dark, coarse hair of his groin, slowly climbed along his cock, circled the tip and then went down to his balls, which trembled under his touch.

"John, please," Sherlock begged, covering his eyes with one arm.

His cock twitched against his stomach, hard and hot; he had already reached his limit, but it was too early for John's tastes; abruptly he pinched the root of his cock, and Sherlock jerked under him.

"Not yet."

"John..."

The former soldier lifted Sherlock's right leg over his shoulder and kissed the hollow of the knee.

"Not yet, I want to enjoy my award a bit longer."

John let a slow trail of kisses along his thigh, biting playfully the firm flesh from time to time, just to prolong the tease; Sherlock's sweaty body shivered and twisted, his hands clutched the sheets, and where the thigh met the hip, his smell was sharp and pungent.

John rolled the heavy testicles on his palm, and, with the tip of his middle finger, touched his perineum.

Sherlock arched his back so much that for a moment John was afraid he was about to break in half, then fell heavily on the mattress, groaning uncontrollably.

John chuckled, his lips resting on the smooth skin of his thigh, and Sherlock grunted, annoyed.

"It's not funny."

"From here, it is," John said, "and it is also very, very exciting."

John kissed and licked along the pushing veins of his cock to the swollen, red glans, then opened greedily his mouth and savored his unique tang. A jerk of Sherlock’s hips pushed him more deeply inside John’s mouth and the former soldier had to push a hand on his belly to keep him still.

Sherlock's other leg had slipped between his, and now pressed against John’s erection, still trapped in his fatigues: he was reaching his limit, too.

Blindly, John grabbed the lube, opened it and squeezed the clear liquid between his fingers, pushed them against his hole and, with some surprise, found it already very slippery and open.

"You've prepared yourself," John observed with a clear note of malice in the voice.

Sherlock wiped the sweat from his brows and cleared his throat before he could talk.

"You told me to be thorough."

"Yes, I did.” John licked Sherlock’s testicles as he kept on opening him, “You have been a good private, so you deserve an award, too."

He retreated his fingers, eliciting a moan of frustration from Sherlock, rolled him on his stomach, and lay down on him, pressing his clothed cock against his naked buttocks.

"You have no idea how much I want you."

John sank a hand in the sweaty curls, forcing him to turn his head, to kiss him vehemently, until they were both breathless, then sat on his heels and opened the zip of his trousers, releasing his hard erection that slammed almost comically against Sherlock's buttocks.

But there was nothing funny in the urgency with which John grabbed Sherlock’s hips to hold him in place, and then he was pushing, pushing, pushing, until his testicles touched Sherlock’s ones; he was unbelievably hot and tight, even more inebriating than his fantasies. John slipped out of him a few inches and then slammed in again, and when Sherlock jerked in surprise, tightening around him, John knew he had found his prostate.

"Again John, please, please..."

John lifted himself on his knees, looking for a better angle, and fucked him hard and deep, surrendering to his instinct, and enjoying every tremor that shaked the wiry body beneath him.

He would have liked to go on for hours, listening to Sherlock's almost pornographic moans and the flesh that slammed against the flesh, but the orgasm overwhelmed him, suddenly and almost painful in his intensity.

John collapsed on Sherlock, breathing against his shoulder blades, moving his thin lips in a vague shape of a kiss, then realized that he had neglected Sherlock, and stretched a hand between him and the mattress, but drew it back wet and sticky.

"You came without touching yourself," John observed with obvious pride.

Sherlock lifted his head with some effort and gestured vaguely with one hand.

"You've been... very... you know," he mumbled, then dropped his head heavily on the mattress, still numb from the endorphins.

John lay down beside him and took off the boots.

"How have I been?" He would not give up listening to a compliment by Sherlock Holmes.

"Brilliant. Absolutely and unbelievably brilliant," Sherlock murmured, more and more sleepy, crawling close to John and leaning the head on his shoulder.

John was about to close his eyes, too, when Sherlock added a whispered "Captain", and the former soldier fell asleep with a cocky smile on his lips.


End file.
